


Maiden's Favor

by yukirei



Series: you and me make an army [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II
Genre: F/M, mother-daughter talk, slight angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-27
Updated: 2015-01-27
Packaged: 2018-03-09 08:09:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,494
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3242462
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yukirei/pseuds/yukirei
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The scarf is a sign of her favor, it is all he has of her, all he deserves. The scarf is a link to him, it is all he wants for now and she will let him have it.</p><p>A two-part view over my headcanon for post A Bitter Pill.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> so i finished A Bitter Pill and im just so dkljfndalkjnf over it enough that it triggered my muse and you get this because i seriously said "fenris please stop brooding over the fireplace and come back to bed" while playing. using mostly headcanon for the red scarf's existence since my Hawke's hairstyle is a high ponytail, i liked the thought of her using the scarf as a hairtie previously.

 

 

 

When he wakes, he cannot help but think how terribly unfair everything is.

He had gone to sleep in languid satisfaction, Hawke's sleepy murmur the last sound gracing his ears, her bed's soft mattress dipping down with their weight for a shallow embrace and for once— _for once—_ her skin on his  i s no bother. The lyrium in his skin tingles but it is muted, overwhe lm ed by the sheer contentment he has found here, in Hawke's room, in her bed, with her.

But no sooner had his world gone dark did the memories rise, sharp and vivid, a surprising eagerness before being ripped away by the threat of wakefulness. And he wakes— he wakes with short breaths, heart pounding in his chest as if he had ran miles upon miles, muscles tense for fight or flight, his mind still lost in memories he's desperately trying to hold on to. It takes several seconds before the memories fade away from his vision— he doesnot want them to but they leave anyway, too far away for him to reach, and when he finally resettles to reality, he realizes where he is— not his house, not in his worn bed— and panic suddenly claws at him. His head whips to the side, dreading what he'll see but he releases a breath when he sees Hawke's face still in peaceful slumber. 

She is on her side, the blanket pulled up just to her chest where the shadows cover what the cloth cannot; her right arm is out and stretched across the slight space between them, her hand resting on his ribs, fingers partially curled. Her palm is warm against his skin but the tips of her fingers are cold, much like her mabari's nose without being wet.

In the soft lighting, he looks at her, cataloguing everything he can see— the gentle curves of her shoulders, the fragile dips of her collarbone, the slight movement of the blanket as she be breathes. It has no purpose, it will not aid him in survival, but he does not care. He wants to remember her face for nothing more than the mere pleasure of it. His gaze settles on her face, still in sleep.

There is a light smattering of freckles from cheek to cheek that she complains about occasionally when work is slow and times seem peaceful, when there is nothing to do and no place to be except where their friends are. She never bothers hiding them though, "too much work", she would say airily, grinning with that endearing irreverence that she never seems to lose no matter the dangers and disappointments life has thrown her way. Fenris never says it but he is glad that for all her complaints, half-hearted they may be, that she never cover s  them up. He likes them and it is a surprise when he realizes that he likes them. It is even more of a surprise when he realizes that he likes them so much because it is a part of her.

He closes his eyes for a moment, committing to his memory what he can see of her freckles in the lights and shadows playing on her face. When he opens them again, he looks at her lashes, long and fanned out against her cheeks when her eyes are closed. They are a darker shade than her hair, even more so than her eyebrows and when she is sleeping like this, they make such a stark contrast to her fair skin, like wispy spikes spread out.

Her nose, small and pert— sometimes it wrinkled when she laughed too much or was feeling very mulish. Or when they were arguing. Fenris often saw it  scrunched up , not with disdain as most of the people from his past had but with a screwed up expression of stubbornness, unwilling to discard her principles and unwilling for him to not understand her viewpoint because they  a re equals and both their points needed to be aired out and considered before making a decision, the right decision.

He has an urge to flick at her nose, sudden and silly, so out of place with the myriad of emotions choking him that it only confuses him further. His gaze moves to her lips, slightly open, the lower lip plumper than the upper, usually curved into a ready smile. Her smiles are often kind but sometimes it turns a touch bit wicked, teasing, slips into a grin, much like the one she gave him earlier before kissing him, before starting _this_.

Fenris feels another surge of growing panic and this time he gets out of bed, mindful enough not to wake her. He dons his armor because he does not want to be so naked, not with the turmoil he is feeling, the sense of helplessness he despises grabbing at him, some part of him whispering how, "he can't do this, he's not ready for this, he doesn't know what the hell he's doing". 

He moves towards the door, feeling like the dirtiest of cowards before his foot steps on something. He looks down and sees a piece of cloth under his foot. He has it in his hands before he recognizes it as the scarf that Hawke uses to hold her hair back into a ponytail.

It's red and often enough it blends in with the color of her hair that it  i s easy to forget its existence, but this is about Hawke and when it comes to Hawke, Fenris never forgets.

He closes his hand over the scrap of red and tucks it in a concealed pocket, swallowing hard. He looks back to the bed and notices that Hawke has shifted in position, now on her back, strands of her unbound hair veiling parts of her face.

He needs to leave but his feet do not move, as if by some blasted magic they're rooted to the floor. He looks away from her because it hurts; he had been happy just hours before, a rush of belonging fitting into him like a long awaited puzzle piece but his is not a life that is worth being happy for long. He knows this, has known nothing but this. Over the years he had accepted that he could laugh again, smile, drink with actual friends but at the same time he knows that these things could not last, not with him.

And while the injustice of this tears at him, nothing could have have felt worse than knowing that her happiness is also a price of his rotten life. He could not give her what she deserves— nothing to give her that she doesn't already have or cannot get for herself.

H e stares at the flames in the fireplace ;  the burning light, crackling and dancing, reminds him of her hair when she is awake, always in motion, strands catching the sunlight and appearing almost fire-gold. 

"Was it that bad?"

He startles, a mild surprise in itself, before turning to her. Her eyes are open; one hand rubs the sleep away and she blinks twice before she looks fully awake. She is smiling but it is tentative and the worry in her eyes is unmistakable.  He shakes his head because of all things he wishes to use to describe their encounter, bad is not one of them— _never_ going to be one of them. "I'm sorry." He blurts out, trips over the next words, awkward and stilted. "It's not... it was fine."

No, that's... not precisely wrong but it's not enough. And not just because she looks disappointed even when she keeps her face straight but because _fine_ is too lacking a word. All the words are too lacking for what happened, it had been everything; too much, too good, too confusing. Still he will be running soon enough, a coward in retreat, but at least in this he can tell her. 

So he turns to face her, does not fidget even with his restless energy and says, "No, that is insufficient." Because it was. "It was better than anything I could've dreamed." Better than he could have hoped for, better than what he could have wanted, what he had dreamed that first time he let himself think of what he would do when he is really, truly free.

There is a pause where they just stare at each other . "Your markings...they hurt, don't they?" She asks, her concern is palpable and he doesn't deserve it. 

"It's not that." Then he tells her, about the dreams and the memories and she tries to calm him down but he thinks she doesn't understand and immediately he hates himself for thinking so because if anyone understands, if anyone had tried so hard to understand him it is her.

When he finishes speaking, he sees in her eyes that she understands what he can't bring himself to say.

"You're going to leave." A statement, not a question but her voice sounds impossibly young, tinged with sadness. There is no anger though, no hatred, no bitterness at that realization just a disappointed acceptance and it drives the pain in him like a stake twisted in his gut.

He apologizes and leaves,  not looking  back because he cannot bear to see the expression that accompanied that tone of voice. 

Outside the Hawke mansion, the cool air slices at his skin and he welcomes him, the warmth of her house,  _of her,_ gradually fading. His hands pat at the slight bump on his clothes and he takes out the red scarf, blinks at it and wonders if he should give it back. He decides that because he cannot have her, he does not deserve her, at the very least he can have this piece of her, this one little piece to show that even if they are not quite right, he is hers in some way.

And that is enough for him.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> acts as the morning after fic where there is no alcohol only heartbreak.
> 
> but mother-daughter talk because really heartbreak from really attractive broody elves falls under that category.
> 
> spawned by the thought "when hawke finally finds her scarf"
> 
> i debated on whether to go with the default name or my own hawke's name and settled for the latter since i'm fond of my hawke's name. i tried to use it sparingly so it doesn't distract!

 

She doesn't cry when she realizes that something is wrong. She doesn't cry when Fenris sounds like he will as he explains the rush of his memories and the futility of keeping them. She doesn't cry as he tells her he can't. She doesn't cry even when she feels her heart breaking. She doesn't. Not until the door clicks close behind Fenris.

It starts slow and quiet, a few tears escaping and trailing down her cheeks as she blinks repeatedly, lost on what to do.

  
She wipes at the tears but that only seems to beckon more and soon enough she feels her throat closing and she hiccups on a sob.

  
Her chest is painful, lungs, heart squeezing as she gasps, trying to suck in breath to alleviate the burning. Her mind races to so many things, words and reassurances, biting phrases, actions that could have stopped Fenris from leaving but they're all paths lost to her. She is lost, doesn't know how to feel. She has pain and anger vying for her attention, betrayal tugging at her, the hollow loneliness of her room threatening to swallow her. Disappoinment runs circles around her head, whispering to her that she cannot be what Fenris needs. Hate is gesturing for her to come over, to allow its embrace to banish the anxieties and confusion. She is all the emotions tearing at her and none of them all at once. 

She curls her hands into tight fists and press them against her eyes. She bends forward, elbows coming to rest on her thighs and she forces her mind to blank out because she doesn't want to do this, doesn't want to face what this— whatever this is when her relaxed boneless feeling from earlier has turned into a deep seated exhaustion, a headache starting to pound on her temples. 

She slumps sideways onto the bed, curling so that her legs come up to her chest and she counts, she focuses on a number, one after another until her consciousness fades.

* * *

She shivers when she wakes, the slight morning chill fluttering all over her bared skin since the fire had died down. She still feels tired, too tired for any of the emotions of last night and as sluggish as she feels there is a clear part of her that is already surveying last night's events with an objective eye. Sort of. She has told herself countless times that Fenris is not an easy man, has smiled to herself, feeling very clever as she said to no one that she did not want an easy man.

Foolish, she whispers to herself, lips barely moving.

She had thought of it as a triumph, kissing him, breaking through his defenses but it feels nothing like the rush of victory now that she looks at her empty room. 

She doesn't want to rise from bed, doesn't want to meet the sun shining that does not care for her moods and the world that lives when all she feels is her own life has come to a complete stop. But Orana knocks on her door, calling her to breakfast and somehow the thought of being seen like this, lost and drained, is worse.

So she tells Orana that she will be down in a moment and gets out of bed.

She puts on her robes, pulls on her soft boots and, out of habit, reaches to her nightstand for her red scarf to tie her hair only to stop when the cloth is nowhere to be found.

Hawke blinks, hand hovering over the polished wood, before she turns in a slow circle, eyes tracking for the scrap of red, brows furrowing when she cannot find any. She gets on her knees and looks under the bed, lifts a sheaf of papers on her desk to check underneath, even opens the chest by the door even though she knows she couldn't have had time to put it there. Not yesterday. She swallows at the memory. Not when all she can remember of yesterday is heat and skin, lips on hers, the frantic tugging of clothes and armor...

Oh.

She feels heat on her face and wonders if maybe her scarf had fallen somewhere on the hallway outside. She doesn't exactly remember when she had lost it, if it was her or Fenris that tugged it off, letting her hair down before fingers—his, this she remembers— had combed through them, tangling in the strands. 

She clears her throat and shakes her head, scrubbing her hands over her face as if that will clean away the memory. "Well." She starts, pauses, then tells herself. "Might as well ask Orana about it."

It seems a good idea as any so she heads out, down the stairs to the dining room where there is a selection of breakfast served. Her mother is already halfway through her plate when she looks up and greets Hawke. She smiles but the slight narrowing of her mother's eyes suggest that she isn't doing a very good imitation of it. She sits down and fills her plate, deciding that if she doesn't say anything her mother wouldn't either.

Wishful thinking on her part, really.

"So..." Her mother says tentatively, patting a corner of a napkin on her lips. "Will your elf be coming down for breakfast?

Hawke is glad she doesn't choke and die on her eggs. Well, she chokes but only very briefly and it passes with a glass of water.

Leandra looks nonchalant, like she's asking about the weather or where Hawke's plans will take her for the day. She continues with, "I saw him come yesterday, and when I went to my room he was still waiting. And." Her mother pauses, chews thoughtfully on a dainty piece of ham before swallowing. "I heard noises so I assumed your elf stayed the night." The look her mother throws her is not exactly disapproving or a warning but it feels like it and Hawke flushes, her cheeks scalding.

She groans and buries her face in her hands, breakfast forgotten.

"Oh don't act like that, Gwyn." Leandra admonishes but her tone is not sharp and it's laced with amusement. "You're an adult woman and I'm sure you have...certain needs. I surely can't deny you that. Not after all you've worked for." Her voice gentles as it turns serious though. "But I am your mother so you can understand I am worried."

She had been feeling hot from embarrassment just moments ago (her mother heard!) but now, she's all hot for a different reason. The mothering tone Leandra uses is something unusual to them now, it brings back memories of her childhood in Lothering, of fights with Carver where she had to yield but didn't understand why, of skinned knees and silly upsets. 

"He left." She tries to say it with an even tone, to state it like a fact but she's horrified to note the high pitch of her voice breaking, the confused cadence to it, the surge of pain it brings. 

Leandra's expression turns hard then, she looks like she wants to march over to Fenris' mansion to give him a dressing down of his life and the thought almost makes her laugh. Almost. But suddenly there is no more of the detachment from earlier to protect her and everything comes rushing back. It feels like she's drowning and the rope she clings on is close to snapping.

Leandra stands from her seat and she closes the door that leads to the dining room. "Did he say why he left?" Leandra asks as she scoots a chair closer to Hawke's then gently reaches out to her daughter.

Hawke spares several moments of quiet debating on whether to tell her mother or not, if this will betray Fenris' confidence or not. In the end she settles on telling her mother in very vague details, not saying anything Leandra might not already know. She tries to explain that she understands Fenris' side even though she doesn't really, not yet, because she doesn't want Leandra to be angry at Fenris. 

"You defend him too much, my sweet girl. He doesn't deserve it." Leandra says and Hawke hears the hint of disapproval there.

She shakes her head. "He does." She closes her eyes because the pain from last night is nowhere near the pain she feels when she remembers why Fenris is Fenris. "He deserves this much. Or more. He's been through so much already and I just want to make him happy. "

She opens her eyes when Leandra's hand cups her cheeks. She meets her mother's eyes, so much like her own, and blinks back tears. "You haven't had a rosy life either. And you deserve much more than a man who doesn't know how to be happy."

"But I've had you, and Father. And Carver and Bethany." Her voice breaks but she soldiers on. "He hasn't had anyone to help him be happy for such a long time. And I get it. I understand that we can't rush it but it's been years and I thought...I just thought maybe we've finally taken a step forward. Something new." She inhales and her exhale is loud and drawn out. "But it's not. It's nothing. I don't know what to do anymore." Hawke looks at her mother, silently hoping that the older woman will tell her.

Leandra opens her mouth but closes it before saying anything, she looks far away, out the window, towards something Hawke doesn't see. When her lips part again she says, "I wish you were a little girl again. You were a devil of a child but you were so sweet once you quieted down and everything was easier. Your problems and your fears, I could just protect you." She sighs, tucking away a lock of hair behind Hawke's ear. "I cannot tell you what to do. I cannot solve this problem for you and I hate that I cannot. This is something you must decide on your own."

Hawke feels so much like that child that Leandra reminisces about, the tears stinging her eyes, that she leans forward and wraps her hands around her mother and cries. Leandra pets her, making soothing noises and whispering, "Shh, Gwynneth, my sweet. You will get through this."

She cries out all her feelings, the hurt and betrayal, the anger, the confusion, the anxieties she refused to face the night before and her mother holds her through all of it, providing the strength she needs. With the end of her tears comes a clarity that she has been seeking for, a start of how she will move through this, of hows he will act. She pulls slowly away from her mother, swiping at her eyes to dry of the last remnants of her tears.

"Well," She hedges, trying for levity and only barely missing the mark. It's good enough for now. "That was rather freeing."

Leandra only raises an eyebrow but she knows her daughter well enough to see that what her daughter wants is a change in mood. So instead she remarks, "I haven't seen you with your hair down in a long time. You look younger."

Hawke startles, as if only remembering it, and fingers the strands that go down past her shoulders when not tied up. "I couldn't find my scarf. I thought I might have...uhm." She shifts in her seat, remembering why exactly she couldn't find it. "Dropped it. Out. In the hallway. Last night." She clears her throat.

"Dropped it. Last night." Her mother echoes and her mother is a smart woman that puts two and two together as she stares at her daughter. "I see."

She stands up abruptly, nervous and embarrassed all over again. "I have to ask Orana about it actually." She turns to the closed door and paces towards it, when it opens she calls out to the elf. It doesn't take long for Orana to respond and it only takes a moment to ascertain that no, Orana has not seen her scarf anywhere in the house and that yes, she has cleaned everywhere even Hawke's recently empty room.

Which brings the question of where her scarf is.

* * *

 

She doesn't tie her hair up the first few days, the feeling of other straps or ribbons odd and it never seems to hold her hair up the way her red scarf had. But honestly it's mostly because she doesn't want to replace it. It had been a gift from her father, not even a gift bought especially for her but just something of her father's that he pulled out when he noticed her hair had grown much too long without bindings. He had chuckled and pulled her hair back, tying it low at the base of her neck as he told her that she would be like a blind man if she kept her hair so unruly, and she just never gave it back. She had used that red scarf to tie her hair up all the time since then.

Now it's gone. 

She tries not to panic, it's only a scarf, not even valuable. She has other things of her father's, like his staff and his book of magic, things she could never dare lose but despite that it sits like a quiet sort of fear, not too big that it overwhelms her but not too small that she can simply ignore it until it goes away. What if she never finds it? The question makes her clench her jaw, worry her lip but she doesn't let anyone see that worry.

* * *

 

She finds it later in the week in a place she never really expects to.

She had been avoiding Fenris since that night. She's not angry at him as everyone seems to think (really, she doesn't not hang out with Fenris so much that everyone has to comment on them being apart for a week. Really.) but she still feels awkward. She had finally come to terms with the fact that maybe it was just too much for Fenris and that's not what he needed right now, she's at peace with it. She'll be Fenris' friend, it'll be just like before and any sort of skip and squeeze in her heart can stay buried deep never to see the light of day. However, telling herself that is a whole different thing from actually seeing Fenris, right there, in the flesh. She resists the urge to turn around to leave the Hanged Man and it's not only because Isabella has already spotted her and is waving like a mad man for her to come over. Really, it's not.

She is strong. She can do this.

She strides over to them, pasting on a smile that she forces to stay even as her gaze rests on Fenris who looks too solemnly at her. She doesn't say anything as she slides down the seat next to Isabella, tucking back her hair in a forming habit. Isabella leans against her and takes a lock, twirling it around a tanned finger before she tugs lightly.

"I love your hair." The pirate sighs. "Looks so much like fire when it's down like this. Never tie it up again."

Hawke rolls her eyes but grins all the same. "You're in luck. I still can't seem to find my scarf."

"You've been looking for what-- a week already, haven't you, Hawke?" Varric comments from the opposite side of the table. "Can't you just buy another?"

She scrunches up her nose. "I can't. It was from my father." She sighs, overly dramatic. "I miss it. I shall never be whole again." She's about to laugh at her theatrics when the table jostles and they turn to the source. Fenris is standing up, glaring at the table before he glances up at them. 

"I have to go." He says plaintively and he's on the move before anyone can say anything. He's rushing out to the Hanged Man's door and Hawke feels hurt all over again before she spies a flash of red around Fenris' wrist. The sight seems to click something into place. Fenris has her scarf. Fenris is wearing her scarf on his wrist, like one of those knights representing a maiden's favor from her mother's stories. Fenris. She blinks, her mind tumbling and she can't seem to focus on anything but that, on what it could mean, on what to do. But the sight, the thought gives her courage to hold on again, lifts her spirits and lengthens her patience.

The next day she buys a hair strap and ties up her hair, much to Isabella's moaning. Fenris doesn't say anything to her but he also doesn't give back her scarf. She smiles, this time feeling it.

They're still a far cry from being happy, being together, being right but for now, it'll have to do.


End file.
